


See?

by Munnin, yakalskovich



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 04:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17542496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munnin/pseuds/Munnin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakalskovich/pseuds/yakalskovich
Summary: Three conversations between the cracks of canon





	1. beyond the scope of kintsugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will aches, and he looks.

Alana let him access the video feed from Hannibal's cell sometimes. If he asked. Which he never did. Not till today. 

He understood. Understood why Hannibal had put himself here. Let himself be caught.

So he would always be there, a constant temptation. An itch Will promised himself he wouldn't scratch. 

He has a family. He was happy. 

But that itch never stopped. Like a constant low-level migraine. 

Hannibal was inside him, behind his eyes, in the folds of his brain. He could hear Hannibal's voice behind his own words, like an echo. Like a ventriloquist.

He'd woken badly. A nightmare he couldn't quite remember. Which was unusual for him. He could almost always recount his dreams in perfect, horrifying clarity. Taste, touch, smell. Realer than real. Making him question reality. His reality. His sanity.

His house smelt like dogs. It felt like Molly's warm body and the sigh of her breathing. Outside it was still dark and the air crackled with the sort of cold that threatened an early winter. 

And yet the scent of Hannibal's cooking, the smooth wool of his plaid suit. The memories lingered in the air, realer than real. 

Molly barely stirred as he got out of bed. She was use to his nightmares, use to him getting up three or four times a night to shake them off. It use to be more when they met. Maybe he was improving. Just maybe. 

A couple of the dogs stirred as he padded barefoot into the kitchen, lifting their heads and wagging their tails in the hope of treats. He hushed them back to sleep and made himself coffee. 

He shouldn't. Not this late. Or was it early. He'd long taken the batteries out of his only clock. The ticking reminding him too much of something... something else he'd heard. Something that has been done to him in this weeks of fever and madness. Another itch in the folds of his brain. 

The thought made him look out the window, to the spot where Hannibal had surrendered himself. Where he had burrowed himself deep, so Will would know where to find him.

And for a moment Will could see him there, unaffected by the cold, which eyes for no-one but Will. 

Hannibal who he trusted. Hannibal who he had confided in, who he would have raised Abigail with. Who killed and resurrected Abigail only to kill her again. Who had intended to eat Will brains directly for his head. 

Hannibal, who haunted his sleeping mind as much as Will tried to put him out if his waking life. 

The itch. The ache.

He would never admit it to another person but he missed Hannibal's office - the smell of books and leather. The warmth of it. He could feel the smooth wood of the library ladder under his hand. Almost more familiar than his dining room table. 

He didn’t need the pendulum swing to take him back there. Not the way he needed it at crime scenes. He wasn’t searching for something or collating evidence, he was going back to a familiar place. A room in his own mind palace. Perhaps it was one shared. 

Everything felt right, familiar. The crackle of the fire; the wood chosen for its scent as much as the way it burned. The heavy drapes holding back the cool of the night, making a cacoon of leather and paper and conversations and company.

All that was missing was Hannibal. It felt wrong to be there without him. 

And yet he was there – in the corner of Will’s eye, the pressure between his shoulders that at any moment would become the touch of Hannibal’s hand. The itch in the folds of Will’s brain. 

But he needed something, something more. Something to make the phantom of Hannibal’s presence manifest. 

On a whim he texted Alana.

_Tell me he’s still in his cage._

Then put his phone down without expecting an answer. It was 2am according to the little screen. There was no reason to think she’d be up. But she’d understand when she got the message. At least, she’d understand what she thought Will needed to know. That Hannibal was still safely locked it. That she had him secure.

She’d think Will had had a nightmare and wanted reassurance. And that was fine too. It essence it was true. 

Will doubted she’d understand. How much Will missed Hannibal. She would miss him too, but in that angry way she carried like a shield too. She missed the mask; the veneer of humanity Hannibal wore for them.

Will missed the monster he’s walked the streets of Europe to find. 

The beep of his phone was so loud in the still darkness, Will cursed, fumbling to open the message before the sound woke Molly and Walter.

A text back from Alana. And so soon.

__

_I lose sleep that way too._

And then a link.

Will clicked the link, suddenly grateful Jack had pressured him to upgrade to a smart phone. But connection wasn’t great in the house, but on the corner of the pouch there would be enough bars to open it.

A live feed to Hannibal’s cell – black and white, but crystal clear. 

He found himself taking a screenshot before closing the feed. He’d forgotten to charge his phone again and the battery wouldn’t last long streaming. 

Besides, he had to text Alana back.

__

_Is that ethical, Dr Bloom?_

He didn’t add a smiley face or anything so trite but he knew Alana would know he was teasing.

Her response came almost at once. An ellipsis. Three simple dots that omitted answer. Followed by-

__

_Call me any time you need. But go back to bed now. I’ll swing by tomorrow._

He meant to put her off, to find a polite way to avoid her. Or to at least message back to thank her.

But his thumb grazed the screenshot and he found himself lost in it. 

Even at 2am, Hannibal was up. Drawing by the light of a small lamp. The image was so clear Will could zoom in on it, see what Hannibal was drawing.

Almost like stepping into Hannibal’s office.

 

“Interesting subject. I’m afraid the symbolism is lost on me.”

"Only a memory, bittersweet like the Aperol in the cafés of Florence," Hannibal's voice supplied in his mind.

There was no difference for Will - Hannibal's voice in his mind or his voice in Will's ear. All of it was Hannibal. 

"You didn't leave me much time for sightseeing." He rested his hip against the desk, arms crossed as he looked down at the drawing, and the sharpening scalpel Alana would never allow Hannibal to have.

But Hannibal's office had Hannibal's tools. Time and place and setting.

"We have to go again," Hannibal said, pleasantly. "We didn't even see Santa Croce."

There were cupolas in the background of the drawing.

Will huffed and turned away, pacing over to the fire to warm his hands. He'd’ve been lying if he said his heart didn't quicken at the thought. 

"You'd make a terrible tour guide. You know too much."

"The art lies in picking and choosing the relevant points for the one you guide," Hannibal said behind him, amusement in his voice. "You would see exactly the Florence that you need, and like best."

That pressure again. Or perhaps the anticipation of pressure. As if he missed the touch of Hannibal's hand on his shoulder, on the small of his back. "The Florence I need." 

He breathed in through his nose, remembering Florence. Old stone, controlled gallery air conditioning. And the taste of blood in his mouth. "I think I saw it. At least the Florence you wanted me to see."

"You saw the painting," Hannibal said, "and us, mirroring each other as we looked at it. You saw the old municipal offices, now one of the greatest galleries in the world. The Medici did not stint themselves, or posterity. Us."

"I saw your legacy. The mark you left on the city. Reflected in Inspector Pazzi's eyes." Will turned to face Hannibal, the corner of his lip quirking in something almost a smile. "Il Mostro." 

It was almost affectionate, the way the moniker sounded on his lips now.

"You saw Pazzi, traitor descended from traitors," Hannibal said. "And you had seen Dimmond, who had just hoped it would be that kind of party."

"I saw what became of Dimmond. What was it he did to offended you? To make him worthy of your broken heart?"

"He wasn't you," Hannibal declared starkly. "And yet, he presumed. So I made him into an origami greeting for you.'

"Your Valentine." Again that pressure, or absence of it. The feeling in the catacombs of Palermo. The weight of knowledge, of Hannibal's eyes on him among all the empty-eyed and desiccated corpses. The filling up of his air in his presence. 

"He took up space that didn't belong to him." Will crossed back to where Hannibal sat, still drawing. "Space that belonged to Abigail and I?"

"Space that belonged to you," Hannibal said. "Abigail is another chapter entirely, another letter of the equation. Bedelia, though, must always have realised that she was second choice, that the name on the ticket had been changed, and it rankled.'"

That made him laugh outright. "I'm sure it did. I doubt she'll every forgive me for it."

He leaned in, admiring the fine detail. "Would we have danced the way you danced with her?"

"We would," Hannibal said, "and everybody would have pretended not to be shocked. We will yet, and people will likely be genuinely shocked until they get used to us."

"I'd tread on your toes, Hannibal." He heard himself smiling. "I'm not as graceful as you." 

What would it be to dance with Hannibal? Publicly. Could Will have done it? Probably not. "It would have been... _inelegant._ "

"My toes have been trodden on, often enough, for much less worthy causes," Hannibal said. "I'll live. And elegance will come with practice."

"Practice makes perfect." Will shivered as he stepped away, trying to cast out the thought of Hannibal's hand on his waist.

But then another thought shoved it away, like a trodden-on toe. "Did you teach her to dance? Abigail."

"She already knew how to," Hannibal said, "at least the basics, for all those important school dances that punctuate the rituals of American youth. But we practised, for our trip."

Will closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift to her. Imagining her laughing, twirling in Hannibal's arms as they danced in some warmly lit living-room. 

Hannibal taking her shopping for a dress, something elegant and tasteful. Something that suited her perfectly, and tailored expertly. Expensive without pretension. 

Will wasn't conscious of the crashing wave of grief till it overcame him, making his breathing hitch and his gut clench.

There was a quiet sound of felt-tipped chair legs moving on wood, and then Hannibal's voice, warm and reassuring, was close behind him, approaching like a ghost.

"I have seen her again"

Will took off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Tell me she's still dancing? Here in your memory palace." 

Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.

"Not just here," Hannibal said. "And she is. In most worlds, she is."

"Everything that can happen happens. Has to end well, and it has to end badly. Has to end every way it can."

The words he said to Abigail.

When she was no more or less real than Hannibal is now.

"And it all has happened, and is real," Hannibal said. "Just not for us, not just now. But it might be again."

"Don't promise what you can't give." Will snapped, almost a sob. "You didn't just shatter the tea-cup this time. You ground it into dust."

"Beyond the scope of kintsugi, you mean?"

Hannibal sighed deeply.

"No promises, this time. Just snatches of faint hope."

"Our scars are too deep to gild, Hannibal." It came out bitter and harsh. "If you'd told me-" 

What? What would he have done differently? Killed Jack just to keep Abigail? Gone gladly with Hannibal, to see her grow up together.?Whose blood would Will have shed just to protect her?

Or was that what her father did? Killing all those girls so he wouldn't have to kill Abigail?

_See?_

"Yes, you would have," Hannibal agreed. "But I wanted you to come freely, without the lure of her. To choose me, not just her. So I kept the surprise."

"Hannibal." Will wanted to turn, to touch Hannibal, to cup his cheek. 

And yet Hannibal was always the one to initiate touch.

"Will."

A quiet sigh, a fleeting touch of Will's hair, then silence. Darkness.

But Hannibal wasn't there. Will was alone. It hadn’t been real. It was an itch Will couldn't scratch. Not like this. 

Wanting Hannibal in the echoes of his own mind was something akin to mental masturbation. 

Between beats of his heart, the cold of Wolf Trap invaded Will's lungs, stealing the scent of leather and wood fire. In its place was the bite of unfallen snow and the smell of his dogs. 

It should have been comforting. Home. But it felt like having something taken away. 

Will touched his cheek, feeling moisture. Not sweat this time but tears. For what might have been.

He walked out onto the field to look back at the house. Without lights on, it was just the sea.


	2. all the promises you need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking of Becoming

Hannibal was standing, ramrod straight, in his now-empty cell, calmly, as if he'd been expecting Will.

Will stepped out of the shadows, his down-turned eyes hidden from the light. And from Hannibal.

"Hello, Will!"

As if they'd just run into each other on the sidewalk of some European city.

"I'm glad to see you."

Even in the dim light of the cell, his eyes were glowing almost red.

"Are you?" Will asked, lifting his eyes slowly. "I'm not sure I am." But he still stepped closer.

"I am sure certainty will come as the Dragon draws closer," Hannibal said, tilting his head slightly but expressively, in that way he had always had.

"The allure of the perilous." He stepped to rest his hand on the glass, and then his forehead. "I gave this up, Hannibal. I gave you up."

"You tried to," Hannibal corrects quietly, coming a little closer. "But I wouldn't go. You always knew where to find me, you could never quite quit me -- like something tenacious sticking to your shoe."

He smiled now.

"More like something chewing on my brain stem." 

And he was through the glass, leaning his hip on Hannibal's big desk, back in the room they'd shared so many conversations. 

"Too close to my frontal lobe to safely be removed."

"Too deep in your Becoming," Hannibal mused, from behind the desk, both hands flat on its surface, "to excise me, and still remain you."

"And what do you become, if you're bound in this with me?"

"The beast that lowers its antlers to your touch, and charges those who want you ill," Hannibal said. "Myself, and then what you need from me."

"My becoming and your, what? Devotion?" The last work lifts with a note of disbelief.

"I am not that selfless, my dear Will," Hannibal said, amusement in his voice.

"What do you want, Hannibal?" Will circled around him, turning his back to Hannibal, looking into the flames. "When you lower your antlers to my touch?"

"For you to see me," Hannibal said, softly. "To live under your gaze, and to be myself in your eyes."

Will walked back over to lean on the table again, at Hannibal's side, arms crossed and eyes down. "See," he echoed very softly, hearing Garret Jacob Hobbs' voice as well as his own.

"That is your great gift," Hannibal said. "You see monsters; I want you to forsake all others, once the Dragon is dealt with."

Pause

" _If_ we can deal with him."

"I tried to forsake them, remember? Including you. And yet here I am." 

He cocked his head, looking down at Hannibal. "You don't believe we can deal with him?"

"If it were that easy," Hannibal said, "it wouldn't be worth our time."

"And that doesn't bother you, does it." Will huffed, not posing it as a question.

"If you want to win your life, you must risk it," Hannibal said. He stepped closer, and looked into Will's eyes, who tilted his head up looking for the monster and seeing only Hannibal. Or perhaps seeing the monster and finding Hannibal.

Hannibal's eyes, a reddish, almost glowing brown, held Will's gaze with a fond smile, hiding nothing. All around was filled with monsters and prey, but Will had come here with him, on the inside.

Will lifted his hand, palm flat.

Feeling only cold glass.

"Soon."

"Threat?"

"Never a threat to you, Will."

"Promise then." There was the briefest tweak of a smile at the corner of his lips as he pushed off the glass.

"All the promises you need," Hannibal assured him.

Will didn’t look back.


	3. sovereignty over the maps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going to face the Dragon

"Going my way?"

Hannibal had turned the car around, opened the door and dropped the body of their police escort as he'd never drop that much litter. He still wore his grey uniform from the State Hospital, but his smile was utterly free. Littering would have been rude. Will couldn't imagine Hannibal doing that. Dumping a body through...

The car smelled of gunshots and blood, but it would do. At least there wasn't blood on the seat. Will wasn't sure he could have gotten in otherwise. The seat was still warm from the man's body. It should have unnerved him but it didn't.

He did up the seatbelt and sighed, letting his head fall back. "Why do I only seem get in a car with you when I've been injured in some way?" Not always physically but he seemed to be aching in some way whenever he was Hannibal's passenger.

"Because only then," Hannibal asserted as he deftly turned the car, "will you give up the sovereignty over the maps of your life, and finally trust that you need me to get where you have to be."

"Sovereignty over the maps," he echoed, tasting the words. "Jack Crawford tried to take that off me a long time ago."

Hannibal chuckled. "He never quite succeeded in taking them. Not from the man who lived in Wolf Trap and would drive hours every day to faithfully return to his pack."

His pack. The pack he'd given over to his- to Molly and Walter. Safer that way. They had a future. He...

Didn't know. 

"At least they're safe." Almost absentmindedly.

"Safe from the Dragon, and the smoke over our map," Hannibal agreed. "Who knows what pack awaits us beyond that."

"They're not worth anything to him. Not now he has me." He wasn’t referring to the dogs. Or just the dogs. He turned his head, looking at Hannibal's profile in the afternoon light. "You still think there is a beyond for us?"

"There is always a beyond," Hannibal said. "We might just not be here anymore, and have to leave the sovereignty of interpretation to others."

"You have a fucked up view on nihilism." Will muttered, shifting in his seat to adjust his weight. The tumble hadn't broken anything but he had some new bruises, one of them on his hip he didn't like.

"What did you expect," Hannibal said, glancing over at Will with a smile. "I'm me. Hannibal the Cannibal, legendary bogeyman to the credulous."

Pause.

"I'll see to that when we're at the house."

"You can't actually like that name." Will huffed in disgust. "House?" He lifted an eyebrow. "It's just bruise." Probably.

"Where did you think we were going?" Hannibal said. "Of course we're going to a house. And we need you as fit as you can be when we face the Dragon, so you'll have to indulge me when I see to your bruises."

"I'm pretty sure I'm out of other options at this point." Other than to indulge Hannibal.

"Nobody gets to pick their own nicknames," Hannibal then added. "If that is what they know me as, then that is what I am to them."

Will closed his eyes and mumbled, almost to himself, "Murder husbands."

"They called us that as well," Hannibal nodded. "Or rather, Freddie Lounds did. I never disliked the implication, you know, even if that was her intention. Yes, even without an Abigail for us to be fathers to."

Will was silent for a long moment. 

"I asked Bedelia if she thought you were in love with me."

"What did she say?"

"Yes. In many more words." He managed a tired quirk of a smile. "She's jealous."

"Of course she is," Hannibal said. "She already was when we were in Florence. She'd cut off a pound of her own flesh and serve it to me, if she thought that would bring me back to where I've never really been." He sighed. "Poor Bedelia. Unlike Alana, she did not find a grand, victorious consolation prize."

"Alana didn't know what she was getting into. Bedelia wanted to be Bluebeard's Wife." There was a chuckle in Will’s voice. "She's pissed you chose me."

"She was always fascinated be my feelings for you," Hannibal says. "It hurts her self-image that I'd chose those, over all the sophistication and devotion that she could deliver."

"You wouldn't give her the self distribution she wanted." Will closed his eyes now, the ache starting to really set in.

"She came out an honourable victim," Hannibal said. "That is all she managed. All I could let her have. There was more at stake, back then in Florence." He reached over to briefly touch Will's cheek. "Tell me when you need me to shut up."

Will caught himself leaning into the touch. Just a little. "No, keep talking." He didn't remember hitting his head but the knot of a headache forming was rather foreboding.

"This isn't my car, so I can't vouchsafe for the content of the glove compartment," Hannibal said conversationally. "All good glove compartments ought to contain painkillers, cough drops, and caffeine candy, but this might be a bad one, full of ammunition and donut coupons."

"Keep talking anyway." Will looked, trying to ignore the smudge of blood that transferred onto his hand as he opened it. There were painkillers, if cheap generic ones. He shook three loose and dry-swallowed them with a grimace.

Hannibal tsk-ed, semi-helpfully. "There is a bottle of coke behind my seat. Again, I plead innocence; it's warm, generic and contains corn sugar. But it's liquid and contains some caffeine, too." The bare minimum, apparently.

"I think I'll live. Thanks." Will ran a hand through his hair in a stretch half aborted with pain. "Any place you have agency over will have coffee."

"Yes," Hannibal said. "Decent coffee. I'm afraid that stopping for it on the way is not an option. I am sure Jack is keeping a lid on things for the time being, but some horrified little barista might recognise us."

"I think the lid is well and truly off," Will said. He rolled his head to look at Hannibal, brow cocked. "You just don't want to be seen in public in that jumpsuit."

"And this haircut," Hannibal agreed. "I look terrible -- like somebody with no agency about his own appearance. That makes people suspicious even before they look at my face. You, on the other hand, are wearing your usual invisibility cloak."

"Vanity, thy name is Hannibal." Will’s eyes are closed but he heard the fond smile in Hannibal’s voice. "Mediocrity is the best defence against interest." And one that got him through most of his life.

"I think that is your most underestimated gift," Hannibal mused. "You are anything but mediocre, in any way, but your command of human mimicry allows you to appear utterly harmless and rather plain."

"Not unlike your person suit?" Will opened one eye a crack. "Bedelia's analogy." By way of explanation.

"Not unlike that," Hannibal agreed. "Yes, she used that analogy to me as well. It's hard to believably wear one, though, when one is put into this kind of unperson suit."

"Is that what you think was done to you?"

"In making me wear this?" Hannibal said. "Yes. This kind of uniform denotes an unperson."

"The contained monster." Will sighed, remembering his own incarceration. "I don't think they know how well tooth and claw can be sharpened on those walls." After all, Will had send the copy-cat to kill Hannibal while locked up.

"No, the ones who hold the key know least about the place," Hannibal said. "But we do."

"Alana-" he was about the say _knows_ but that wasn't right either. "Is aware enough to know there are things she'll never understand. Frederick Chilton was as aware of his surroundings and a goldfish."

Past tense. A piece removed from the board.

"That aware and conscious?" Hannibal said, amusement in his voice. "You really think that?"

"An insult to goldfish?" Will asked, chuckling too.

"Definitely," Hannibal said. "Goldfish are related to koi, after all, and koi are very personable and interactive fish -- not just decoration, proper pets. We should get some. Dogs don't fish, after all, unlike cats and Will Grahams."

"I've never fished for koi." Which is to say he'd never had a reason to study their habits and behaviours. Will turned to study Hannibal's profile. "Already planning our future." Not phrased as a question.

"Looking for new antlers to shape plans after," Hannibal amended, "after the eye of the needle that we must go through." Pause. "We may as well end up measured and found too thick."

"Always planning." It wasn’t meant as an insult. Will's own agency had grown since he started to think that way more than just reacting to stimuli. But he still felt as if he couldn’t think past the Dragon. Couldn't see the person he might be on the other side of that fire.

"No firm plans, just a messy tangle of what-ifs," Hannibal said. "You do speak Spanish, don't you? Good."

"Functionally." It was almost a question. Almost wanting to hear about Hannibal's what-its. "Can't discuss the finer points of art but I can ask directions and make conversation." If he had to. He'd rather not but that's less to do with language and more to do with social transactions.

"That might be something to build on," Hannibal nodded. "You are adaptable. After all, you sailed the Atlantic all by yourself and then found your way around Europe until you came to me in Palermo, then Florence."

"There were parts where I was thrown from a train," Will pointed out.

"As far as I know," Hannibal chuckled, "that wasn't owed to your inability to make your own way around Europe, but rather to Chiyoh's slightly overprotective nature."

"And now I'm here. Going... where, exactly?"

"To the place where we meet the Dragon," Hannibal said. "My cliff house. Taking the advantage of picking the field of battle. I'll show you the salient points when we get there."

Will nodded and closes his eyes again. The motion of the car began to lull him to sleep. One hand fell open on the console between them, palm up.

Hannibal turned on the radio, an utterly mundane gesture; but because he is Hannibal, the slightest twist of the dials brought up a Brandenburg Concerto, calm and quiet.

The common preferences of the cops who used to inhabit this car made the speakers favour the bass; with Bach, this meant that the _basso continuo_ came to the foreground, increasing the soporific effect of the car's gentle motions.

Will slept easily for the rest of the journey, only waking as the cat turns into a gravel driveway. "I smell the ocean," he commented without opening his eyes.

The car stopped, and Hannibal reached out to briefly touch Will's still-open palm as the motor cuts out, and the radio fell silent.

"We're here," Hannibal said. "At the cliff above the sea; I'll show you."

For a moment Will's fingers closed around Hannibal's, transferring the smear of dried blood. But then he let go and rubbed his cheek, opening the door and stretching as he got out. His hip still hurt, but the place was actually nice. He could have liked it here if they hadn't come here to die.

Hannibal stood as well, stretched to the sky, and breathed in deeply.

"Home away from home," he said. "Jack's lot never found it."

"How many didn't Jack find?" Will asked, slightly amused. He headed for the edge, stepping past a ring of larger stones.

"Enough," Hannibal admitted. "He missed a few of my places, and most of my stashes. I let him have those that were burned anyway, or not that useful."

"And now me." It's said softly, mostly to himself. Jack missed many things. Including how far from being _his man_ Will had become.

"He thought you his useful tool," Hannibal said, starting to walk around the house. "He thought he could dump you into a peaceful life and pick you up whenever he wanted to. I do have to blame him for not realising you'd break. He lost his former edge since Bella's death."

Will didn't follow, staying where he could see the ocean. Where he could hear the regular beat of the waves. "It wasn't Bella. It was you. And me."

"Because he fell for my traps, and underestimated you?" Hannibal said. "Ah, but do you think he would have if Bella had still been with him? She saw through me much sooner."

"We weakened his sense of infallibility. At a time he couldn't control life and death, he thought he could control other things. Us."

"And then, one of us had to be the very monster he was hunting," Hannibal answered. "What a blow. Then, he first got the wrong one, and when he finally got the right one, you failed to drop back into line as if nothing had happened, just a small regrettable mistake." Pause. "What a surprise."

"How many times did he believe he has the Chesapeake Ripper?Abel Gideon, Chilton, me, you. And even once he had you-" Will gestured around to their freedom, however temporary.

"He didn't manage to hold on to me," Hannibal nodded. "He never realised I only stayed for your sake."

"No. No, he didn't." Will walked closer to the edge, feeling the salt on his skin. "I doubt Alana knew."

"She was too scared to think straight," Hannibal said. "Which is why I threatened her and her family, now."

"Will you? Hurt them?" His tone was neutral but Will kept his back to Hannibal now, eyes only for the waves.

"If we survive the Dragon," Hannibal said, "do you think I'd waste resources on making her unhappy, just because? If she had been thinking straight, she'd have realised I don't usually threaten people. As long as she's running in the opposite direction, she can't get in the way again."

"You don't usually break promises either." Will turned his head then. "I need a shower. Do you think we have time?"

Hannibal stepped up behind him, and smiles at him. "She is on borrowed time," he agreed. "We all are, and cannot run from it. Even the earth crumbles underneath our feet."

Standing beside Will, he peered down at the roiling sea in its narrow bowl between the cliffs, white waves foaming up at the bluff, eating at it, while the middle stayed ominously dark.

"The bluff is eroding," Hannibal said, conversationally. "There was more land when I was here with Abigail; more land still when I was here with Miriam Lass."

"Now you're here with me," Will reflected, turning to look at Hannibal who was still looking into the abyss.

"And the bluff is still eroding," he slowly said. "You and I are suspended over the roiling Atlantic. Soon, all this will be lost to the sea." He caught Will's eyes then, and smiled minutely before turning towards the house.

"And yes, showers are definitely on offer. I don't want to risk dying in this unperson suit."

Will followed him inside, touched the door frame as he entered. 

Chairs covered by cloths, thick carpet, and Abigail's ghost, hanging in the air. The life they could have had here. He walked from room to room, looking for hers, which he recognised as soon as he opened the door. Her scent lingering. 

"Is this where we would have come, if I'd gone with you?"

"As a first stop, yes," Hannibal said. "For a breather. Then, on to the airport before Jack or Alana recovered enough to speak."

"Everything that can happen happens. Has to end well, and it has to end badly. Has to end every way it can. This is the way it ended for us." Will took a slow breath. "I told her that once. After you killed her." 

He didn't wait for Hannibal to reply. "Which way to the bathroom? I assume you have spare clothes in my size."

"Of course I do," Hannibal said. "And some toiletries that might suit you, even without the ship on the bottle. Even if ‘salty’ is your usual state of being, it doesn't have to be from sweating, or from the sea." Pause. "The room beside hers.

Will huffed darkly and turned away, heading into the shower and closing the door. 

The sun had set by the time he came out, clean and dressed as he leaned against the window, looking out at the sea.

"He won't be long now," Hannibal said behind him, emerging from another door smelling of steam and oud, wearing neutral colours, his hair still badly cut, but damp and free.

Will looked over, looking him up and down, then back at the window. "At least you'll die looking like you."

"If I have to die," Hannibal said. "We may yet come out of this alive. Once the Dragon is here, the outcome is fully open." He ran a hand through his hair. "But yes, this may be a last moment for me to be myself."

"What does that make me? My _becoming_? If you cease to be you." Will looked around to Hannibal, eyes dark. "Do either of us survive separation?"

"If we do," Hannibal says, "you will take me into the future within yourself, or I you: - the only remaining person who could really see the other."

"What will there be to see, if we're both changed by the Dragon."

"Then we just leave pieces for Jack and Alana to puzzle over," Hannibal said. "Which would be a waste, so let's by all means avoid it."

Will toyed with something light and silken, brushing it between the fingers of one hand. One of Abigail's scarves, the ones she use to hide her father's scar.

"We wasted too much as it is," Hannibal said, as if picking up on that. "Time. Potential. Perfect moments."

Will turned sharply, harsh words on the tip of his tongue. His eyes blazed at Hannibal. 

And then the moment passed and he dropped the scarf, shoulders sagging. "I need a drink."

"I'll get us some wine," Hannibal offered, smoothly. "And music. There is no point in waiting in silence, with bated breath."

Will turned his back, staring out at the darkened sea, watching the moonlit crests of waves.

Soft piano music started to play from unseen speakers as Hannibal's steps retreated downstairs, towards the inside of the cliff house.

Will closed his eyes and tried not to feel Abigail at his side, or hear her voice. _"If everything that can happen happens, you can't really do the wrong thing. You're just doing what you're supposed to do."_

In the background, Hannibal was making noises involving wood and glass, as if to let Will know where he was. Abigail's presence lingered, slight and ephemeral, like her silken scarf. Will sniffed briefly and les her ghost go, like a waft of perfume on the air, as Hannibal's steps returned, with the clink of glasses and a bottle.


End file.
